The Amazing Mind of Alice Makin (22 page)

Mrs Gilbey gets up. ‘Don't forget your balaclava, Norman, it's blowing up out there.' She turns to me, looking a bit concerned. ‘Looks like it's going to be a bad storm.'

I pull a face, shrug my shoulders.

‘Angus, would you take those plates out to the kitchen for me?'

They go out, still talking. Suddenly we're on our own, me and Reggie.

‘Good b-birthday?'

‘In the end, the best.'

He looks at me like the cat that got the cream.

‘I've got s-something else for you.'

‘What?'

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out an envelope. Looks like another birthday card.

‘It's what I've been telling you about. It doesn't look m-much but it's p-probably the most important birthday present you'll ever have.'

‘What is it?'

I slip my fingers inside the envelope. Peer in. It's not a birthday card.

‘Be careful, it's a bit f-fragile.'

I slide it out of the envelope slowly. It's a photograph. I hold it out. Let the light play on it.

It takes me a while to take it in. To work out what he's showing me. It's my photograph but it's been joined to another one. It's not perfect; there's a ragged white line running through where the two halves have been joined.

‘What is it?'

‘Can't you see? It's the other half of your photo!'

I peer at it.

‘It's a bit blurred Reggie. I . . .?'

He interrupts, sounds excited.

‘Look carefully.'

I do. Shadows pull across its surface. Tease my eyes. Shapes on paper. Light and shadow. Negative. Positive.

‘It nearly fits perfectly. And see, you were right, the man in your half does have his arm around a lady and look . . .'

He sounds really excited like he's just discovered buried treasure or something

‘. . . the lady is holding a baby too.'

He's right but I feel like I'm missing something. Being stupid. I look up at him. His eyes are bright.

‘I couldn't believe it when you first showed me your half. I knew straight away it would f-fit my bit and it does, doesn't it?'

‘Your bit? What d'you mean?'

There's something else in his voice now. Like he's just run the longest race ever and come in first. It's over and he's the winner.

'The other half is m-mine. I'm the other b-baby. I had the other half of the photograph. It was found with me. Just like your bit was with you. L-look at the man. Anything familiar about him?'

I peer at the face again. Turn it to the light. One minute you can see something, then you can't. I'm not sure what to say, but he doesn't wait for a reply.

‘He looks like you, Alice. The same curly hair and your lopsided grin. You must be able to see that. It's your dad, Alice. Your real dad.'

The words spin in my head.

‘My dad? My real dad?'

My stomach yo-yos but I force myself to take my time. Look carefully. Take in every detail of the photo.

‘But if it is my dad, what's he doing with his arm around the lady who's holding you? This is bonkers, Reggie. I don't get any of it.'

‘Wake up! I thought you were supposed to solve puzzles. It's a photograph of a family, Alice, and we're both in it . . . Part of the same family.'

He pauses, grins.

‘Which means . . .'

He pauses again, waits for it to sink into my overloaded brain. And it does.

‘. . . you're my brother?'

‘Worse than that. I'm your twin.'

He looks a bit embarrassed, a bit happy, a bit shy, a bit pleased with himself. ‘Well? What d'you think?'

He might just as well have asked me how many miles to Jupiter. I shake my head.

‘I just don't know Reggie. This is too . . .'

My words trail away. I look at Reggie, then back at the photograph, and all of a sudden, for no reason, I'm sure. I want to shout and sing and dance all at the same time. Instead, I burst into tears.

‘Hey, it's not that bad! And I j-just thought of something else. If it's your birthday and we're twins, it must be my b-birthday too.'

‘Except it's not my real birthday. Mum called the day I was taken to the orphanage my birthday because no one knew when it really was.'

‘In that case it can be my not-real-birthday too.'

‘Happy not-real-birthday, then.'

I sit back down again.

‘You all r-right?'

‘Think so. I just can't take it all in.'

‘It'll take time. Not every day you f-find you've got a genius for a b-brother. Still can't get used to having a little s-sister, come to that.'

‘Not so much of the little.'

He keeps smiling. I just sit and let everything wash over me. Can't believe it. Us sitting here. The sound of Granddad and Mrs Gilbey chatting. The singing on the wireless. The firelight. I can hear Mrs Gilbey and Granddad laughing in the kitchen. They seem to be a long way away. On the wireless Big Ben chimes out the time.

I count the chimes. ‘I'm gonna have to go, Reggie. I didn't realize it was that late. I don't want to get into any more trouble with Bert. I'll come up for you tomorrow. We've got a lot to talk about.'

From outside comes a distant rumble. Reggie goes over to the window. Looks out.

‘It's still raining. Getting heavy. Think that's thunder. I'll c-come with you.'

‘No, it's all right. I'll be fine.'

‘You s-sure'

‘Sure. I'll take the short cut by the old shelter. Won't take long.'

I can see the uncertain look in his eyes.

‘I can take care of myself. Anyway, I've got a lot to think
about. I'll be better on my own.'

I get up, get my things together. ‘See you later, then.'

He still looks worried ‘You certain you're s-sure?'

‘Reggie.'

‘Sorry, it's not every day you get a sister. I don't want to lose you now.'

‘Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere.'

‘S-see you tomorrow, then.'

‘Oh, and Reggie –'

‘Yeah?'

‘Thanks.'

O
utside the sky is all around me. Like it's wrapping me up. A spider's web of a sky, trapping me and my thoughts. The rain is heavy. Thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance. I walk quicker. There are two streetlights at the bottom of Lyndsay Street. They beacon out a glare of yellow light. Raindrops pattern the air around them. In empty doorways shapes move then fade as I pass them. Strange noises tease. Play tag.

‘Sherlock, you there?'

‘As ever, my dear.'

‘Bit scary out here.'

‘We'll be all right.'

‘What a day.'

‘You said it.'

‘Got myself a twin brother. Didn't work that one out, did you?'

‘Who'd have guessed it.'

‘Right.'

‘Looks like a bad storm coming, though.'

‘Afraid so.'

I start to walk towards the old bomb site. It's a short cut
home. I've been this way hundreds of times before. But with every step I start to get a strange feeling in my stomach. Like something's not right. Something's telling me to stick to the lit streets. Keep away from the dark of the bombed ruins, the smashed houses, the secret shadows.

I start to feel uncertain. Strange. I know this place. Every part of it. Daydreamed away too many days, played too many games here to be scared. So why am I? Somewhere lightning crackles. I look up into a smoky, black sky. The storm is heading my way.

‘Change of plan, Sherlock. We'll go back up Lyndsay Street then into Sidney Street. Long way round, but it'll be light all the way then.'

‘Right behind you.'

Lightning tugs at the edge of the sky. I put my head down and walk as fast as I can. The rain drives at me. I pass the two streetlights, get to the bottom of Lyndsay Street, stop. Look down Sidney Street. It should be bright, well lit, but I stand looking into a long tunnel of darkness.

‘Strange.'

‘Mmm. Power cut? Might be the storm.'

‘What d'you think?'

The rain is dripping from my hair. Tracing invisible lines down my face. Making queues at the end of my nose.

‘Come on, let's go. Maybe the lights will come back on.'

I start to walk. Sidney Street's a wide street. Lots of factories. Many of them were hit by bombs during the war. Looking down the street now is like looking at a comb with half its teeth missing. Left over, left behind. In the gaps between the factories, broken furniture and rubbish is piled among the bricks and buildings. Prams without wheels. Twisted chairs, broken-backed tables.

‘If we can make it to the bottom I think we'll be all right, don't you, Sherlock?'

‘Sure to be.'

The storm is rolling in. I can feel it in the air. Heavy. Suffocating. It seems to be taking for ever to walk down the street. I feel tired. Maybe it's just all the excitement. Maybe I'm just scared of the storm.

One of the street lights flickers on and off. Above, a fork of lightning streaks across the sky, lighting up black clouds.

‘Fancy a run?'

‘Nothing like a bit of exercise. Bit of an athlete in my day, you know.'

‘Bet I can beat you.'

‘No chance, dear girl.'

I put my head down and charge into the sheeting rain. It clatters into gutters, waterfalls down drains. A racing tide. It's like running through a river, splashes up all over me. I'm soaked. The sky is dark. The street echoes to the booming thunder. I can't see a thing, except in the split second when lightning tears open the sky and shows me
the black and white world. Still, I'll soon be home now. Only a few minutes more and I'll see Hawkins Street.

The loudest clap of thunder I've ever heard explodes in the sky. Rings in my ears. At the same time, the sky lights up and I can see everything. The factories. The street. But what I see confuses me. These are not the streets I know. It's as if someone's letting me see I'm lost. Laughing at me. But how can I be lost when I've lived round here all my life?

I've got to take shelter. I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. Lightning conjures a tall building out of the darkness. I see it just long enough; it looks more or less intact. There's a sign over the door half hanging off, swaying. It has a name written on it. For some reason I look up at it.

‘Westlands Metals'

‘Seem to know that name, Sherlock, don't know from where though. Let's take shelter here.'

‘Careful, Alice, these old bombed factories are dangerous places.'

I grab the door handles and pull them hard. The doors creak. The wind catches them and flings them violently open. I step inside and find myself standing in the shell of an old factory, the size of a football pitch. It's high and so dark, but in the flashes of lightning I put together what I see. Taking photographs with my eyes. Waiting for the lightning to develop them. Lots of broken windows – jagged glass in twisted frames. The remains of what was
once the ceiling sags open dangerously, a ribcage of splintered planks and rafters hanging down. There's lots of rubbish piled up in dark corners – old upturned cupboards and desks, broken mostly, boxes piled against one wall, covered in dirt and rubbish. They look like they've been here ages.

Rain sweeps through the factory, trickles down on to the floor. I try to feel my way in, using the lightning strikes to see. In front of me is some kind of conveyor belt. I suppose once there would have been dozens of people sitting alongside it. Making things, checking them, putting them into boxes, stacking them. Now it's completely smashed. Probably bombed during the war. I don't see the twisted metal sticking out. Walk straight into it. It rips my dress, slices into my leg. I feel the trickle of blood.

Suddenly a crack makes me jump. Lightning forks down, spits in through a window. I duck, and in that instant of light my heart skips a beat. I can see someone across the space. Near the far wall.

I suck in my breath.

‘Who's there? Who are you?'

The light goes. My voice rumbles around. Echoes back.

Nothing. Just shadows playing tricks. I'm imagining things again. The thunder seems closer. Booms at the building. The storm's overhead now. Lightning fizzes in again, heading straight for me. I duck. Fall to my knees. Scramble under the conveyor belt. Something hisses past,
hits the ground, exploding into a fireball, setting fire to a pile of rubbish.

I look back across the space again. The fire bathes it in orange light. I peer through the smoke. There is someone there. I can see her clearly. I stare into the eyes of a girl. A girl I know. I wasn't imagining it. It's me. It's my reflection. My reflection in some sheets of metal leaning against the far wall, that's what I can see.

Another fork of lightning plunges through the dark. This time it hits the corner of the conveyor belt above my head. It bursts into flame. I can smell rubber burning. The fires are beginning to spread, sweeping across the factory floor. The doorway where I came in is a furnace of flames. The smoke choking. I'm not going to be able to get out that way. Sooner or later this building is going to collapse, with me in it. I know I've got to get out, but if I do I'll have to face the storm. It's almost as if I know it's waiting for me. I know that's stupid, but it's how it makes me feel. There's a terrible groaning noise. Across the other side of the factory, part of a wall collapses and some of the metal sheets clatter noisily to the floor. Above me the roof begins to creak. I wonder how long it can stay up.